The epilogue for my first drafted story
This is the 200th post of this blog, and in honour of my 4-and-a-half-year progress to improvement in English, I may as well enlighten you all with an inspired short memo of mine.
WARNING: This is not based entirely on my own personal experience and the “I” in the passage refers to a persona that does not necessarily be the writer herself.
I dig deep in the back of my mind, torturing my brain with the rigid plough of stupendous effort of will, to recall that particular feature that I’ve fallen in love with. The strength of your concrete biceps stagnates, but no, not the colour of your eyes. I refuse to generalise it, to conceptualise it, or to unostentatiously fabricate it for a complete visualisation of you. I am stubborn because I refuse to forget you. Options of analogous colours float through my vision invitingly. Translucent blue or greenish? Or that odd conflux of tarnished gold and moss called hazel? Pearl grey or navy?
Then I laugh at myself for the ridicule I’m putting this impotent brain of mine through. You wouldn’t think the objective in looking into someone’s eyes is to see the colour, would you?
When we were together I’ve never got a ring, or drawn your name with romantically ornate hearts, or humiliated myself in one of those cliche couple shirts, and trust me, I thank the life force everyday for my good judgement. Yet the image of you has come back every time I’ve inhaled a murky cloud of cigarette smoke or caressed the jagged texture of your torn leather jacket. Somehow now-aday that stained leather jacket, now tinged with smoke and tar somehow envelopes me in that state of serenity that hinders me completely from the real world. Afterall, no carcinogens could stimulate the mutation of every cell inside me to get rid of you, I thought.
Life would be so much simpler without love, without the fear and complexity of another block of walking and breathing atoms, whom one’d develop a kind of attachment that no science could ever make sense of.
WARNING: This is not based entirely on my own personal experience and the “I” in the passage refers to a persona that does not necessarily be the writer herself.
Then I laugh at myself for the ridicule I’m putting this impotent brain of mine through. You wouldn’t think the objective in looking into someone’s eyes is to see the colour, would you?
When we were together I’ve never got a ring, or drawn your name with romantically ornate hearts, or humiliated myself in one of those cliche couple shirts, and trust me, I thank the life force everyday for my good judgement. Yet the image of you has come back every time I’ve inhaled a murky cloud of cigarette smoke or caressed the jagged texture of your torn leather jacket. Somehow now-aday that stained leather jacket, now tinged with smoke and tar somehow envelopes me in that state of serenity that hinders me completely from the real world. Afterall, no carcinogens could stimulate the mutation of every cell inside me to get rid of you, I thought.
Life would be so much simpler without love, without the fear and complexity of another block of walking and breathing atoms, whom one’d develop a kind of attachment that no science could ever make sense of.
Comments
Post a Comment